


And o'er his heart a shadow

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Road to El Dorado (2000)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Yochan</p>
    </blockquote>





	And o'er his heart a shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Yochan

 

 

The thing about an island is, it's very hard to leave.

They take a long time to figure this out. A long time to even *try,* because the forest is huge and wet and chittering, and more of it everywhere they turn. So for a while they just follow it, lowlands to highlands, where the trees grow paler green with long skinny leaves, and Chel ties the leaves into a skirt that barely lasts a day, because it shimmers around her hips like a constant waterfall, and when Tulio points out,

"You realize that doesn't actually...cover anything?"

\--she smiles with lidded, beetle-stained eyes and says, "Is it supposed to?"

He hears Miguel laughing at him as he goes to her, but it's all right. Chel laughs too, a lazy sound as round as her hips. And when Miguel presses hot against his back, head on his shoulder, hands on his wild hips, that's all right too, because they are on an adventure in a new world, and somewhere down the river monkeys are screeching, all night and into the morning.

Highlands to lowlands again, where they lie in a huddle on the beach at night and Chel points to all the stars. They're nothing like the stars back home. He can't even find Mars. Tulio wouldn't have imagined that the stars could change from place to place, but why not? Everything else does. Still, the thought unnerves him a little. Makes him wonder, when, exactly, on that long delirious voyage the sky had flipped itself over to the new configuration, and how he could have missed it.

"That part there," she points to the lower edge of the sky, near the water, "that's the oven of the gods. And that's the two serpents who got thrown in there--"

"I don't see any serpents," Tulio says. Miguel elbows him; he elbows back.

"Those are their eyes, right there," Chel takes his hand and points it up. "The red ones, like hot ashes."

He squints, and stares, and for a second the dark red pinpricks seem to flare, but he blinks and loses them. Then blinks some more and yawns, and settles back into the sand. He falls asleep slowly, piece by piece, while Chel explains to Miguel how the traveling bee was plucked from its path on the white road and devoured by angry vultures, as punishment for looking down.

***

The thing about a massive pile of stones is, you can climb back over it. If you have the time.

It only takes two weeks by foot. Everyone is very pleased to see them.

***

It takes more than a few cups of wine to make Tulio say it, finally. It takes--well, a few cups of wine, but he suspects this batch is stronger than usual. After all, look at him--only halfway through the bottle (well, half and a bit--half and a quarter, maybe) and he's leaning against Miguel's shoulder, slinging the arm that's not wrapped around Chel's sleepy soft body, around Miguel, and murmuring this drunken nonsense about--well--

"I liked you better as a god," Tulio says, enunciating fairly well, he thinks. All things considered.

Miguel stops humming the little tune he's been humming--something lilting that Tulio almost recognizes, makes him think of Spain and swordfights--and turns to look at Tulio. "Hmmm?"

So he has to say it again. "I liked you better as a god."

The second time works. It makes Miguel wrinkle his eyebrows and look all upset. That look, damn him, and damn his eyebrows, too--that look that makes Tulio want to lick his thumb and smooth out the wrinkles that shouldn't ever be there.

"Liked you better," he says a *third* time, then finally manages some new words-- "You were happier. You're not happy."

"'m happy." Miguel smiles, like he's demonstrating. But Tulio can see through his smile. He can. See right through it to the other side where's it's not a smile, it's a frown, and it's *sad.* To prove it he reaches out and pulls Miguel's mouth down until he looks like a street clown, the ones with the painted faces and patchwork rags of clothes.

"Not. Happy. See? You're a clown on the inside. I mean--" Miguel looks puzzled. Tulio moves his tongue around his mouth until it figures out what it's trying to do in there, anyway. "You were happy and excited and it was good for you. Being a god."

"Yeah, it was." Miguel smiles for real and his eyes get all full of remembering.

"But now--" Tulio waves his hands around, trying to express what he means. Chel thumps to the ground as he waves a little too vigorously. Luckily she also drank somewhat more than six cups of wine, and she doesn't wake up. He clumsily pats her forehead in apology, then turns back to Miguel. "You don't like it here. No. You like it here but you don't. You--"

But Miguel's nodding, strangely enough, since Tulio's pretty sure he hasn't actually said anything yet. Still--nodding--that same half-sad half-sweet look in his eyes that's been haunting Tulio for *weeks* now. "I like it but I don't," he says.

"Exactly." Tulio pauses, trying to remember what he's affirming, but Miguel keeps talking so that's all right--

"I miss being on the run," he says, with a deep sigh. "Miss pulling off heists. Jumping off roofs. Good stuff."

"Me too." Tulio nods and he *does,* he does exactly, miss horses going much too fast and stealing bread and crouching in back alleys to split stolen bread between them, and--and--

"I guess it's sad," Miguel says. "I mean. We're in..." He waves his hand expansively. Tulio nods again.

"And we miss running." He laughs. It is kind of funny. In a sad way. Miguel leans into Tulio's chest, yawning.

"Maybe we can run away again." His voice is muffled, talking into Tulio's shirt.

"Sure, pack some supplies on our backs, climb back over the wall of rock--"

"--and build a raft out of leaves," Miguel says. "Sail to Spain."

"Mm, no," Tulio says, tangling a wine-sticky hand in Miguel's hair--light when they got here and bleached even paler now by the constant sun. "We've been there. We'll sail to. To." He pauses. "Help me out here."

"Uh...Africa?" Miguel offers, to his shirt.

"Africa. Sail to Africa."

"In our raft."

"In our raft," Tulio agrees.

"I'm gonna fall asleep now," Miguel says, and he does. Tulio sits there, leaned up against the stone wall of the hut, the two bodies heavy on him in the wet twilight heat.

 


End file.
